


Piece By Piece (he restores my faith)

by readingbylamplight



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of past canon child death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Arthur Morgan, Protective Hosea Matthews, characters to be added as they join the story, do you know how hard it is for me to keep them from kissing, eventual Abigail/Arthur, hosea matthews is a good dad, inspired by that one journal entry about Abigail and Jack, past Abigail/john, past Arthur/Eliza, very
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readingbylamplight/pseuds/readingbylamplight
Summary: “If he ever comes back here,” He whispered to the fire, the rage pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart, “I’ll make him wish he had died.”Hosea gave him a look over the fire, a soft, heartbroken thing, but Arthur could find no remorse within him to give.—The year John left and what could have been.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston & Jack Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston/Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Eliza/Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Dutch van der Linde, Jack Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 33
Kudos: 92





	1. A Fool Named John Marston

Arthur was already half-awake, aware that someone was walking around camp calling for John, Hosea if he had to guess, when the tent flap was opened and the early morning light poured in.

“Arthur?” 

On any other day, he would have grumbled a yes, maybe buried himself deeper in the blankets to avoid getting up, but the second his brain processed that one, it was Abigail, and two, she sounded like she was about to cry, he was on his feet; not even bothering to grab his boots before he crossed the grass to her.

“What’s going on?” He asked, and her jaw trembled.

“I woke up a couple minutes ago and John wasn't there. Thought he was just out by the fire eating but then I noticed that his bag and Old Boy are gone, Arthur. Did he say anything to you? Maybe that he was going to work a job?”

Arthur shook his head, “I'm real sorry, Miss Roberts, but he didn’t say anything to me. No note or nothing, you're sure?”

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, and he took a deep breath, trying to process what was going on, “I’ll talk to Hosea and Dutch, work on sending out a search party. Alright?”

Abigail threw her arms around him with a sob, and he awkwardly patted her on the back before sending her back into the arms of Tilly, who was standing behind her. They walked back towards the fire, and he heard Grimshaw tell Abigail to eat something, that everything would be okay.

He made his way over to Dutch’s tent, where the man stood tense in the doorway, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. Hosea was talking to Davey and brought the younger man over to talk to Arthur when he saw him.

“Arthur, Davey says there’s tracks from where the horses are kept, going south. Get something to eat for the road and then I’d like both of you to go see what you can find out there.”

Both men nodded, and Hosea clapped his hand down on Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, before continuing his walk towards Abigail and the other girls.

Arthur and Davey prepared and left without a word, climbing atop the horses and following the tracks out of camp a ways.

Davey, who Arthur had always said was a far better tracker than he could ever be, stopped suddenly and climbed down off his horse, Penelope, seconds later. He cut through the brush on foot, and Arthur dismounted to join him, and soon they found themselves at the bank of the nearest river, open plains on the other side.

“Tracks lead down to the riverbed,” Davey said, kneeling in the soft dirt, “There’s no good place to get up on the other bank here though.” 

Arthur’s chest tightened uncomfortably with the words, combined with his knowledge that John couldn’t swim to quite literally save his life. If the horse had startled and bucked him or had fallen? 

He couldn't consider the possibilities, not now.

“Let’s check the banks for more tracks down the way.” 

They returned to the horses, riding down both sides of the riverbank, but Arthur found nothing on his side; cut off by a series of jagged rocks that blocked his way further down.

“Might have some tracks here, but look.” He made his way over to Davey, looking over to where he was pointing. A group of wild horses grazed nearby, their hoofprints littering the ground; destroying their ability to track any further than here. 

“It could have been Old Boy, or it could have been them.” Arthur sighed, catching sight of a horse the same size as Old Boy, “No way to know.”

“Yeah, no way to know. But I’m sure he’s fine Arthur.”

They rode back to camp in silence, and Davey offered to be the one to tell Dutch and Hosea. Arthur accepted, gratefully, and went to sit down near the fire and warm his hands. 

“Anything?” Karen whispered, and he shook his head. 

“How is she?”

He could remember her sobs just an hour or two again, the way her hands clung to his jacket, how Jack had cried when he was leaving camp and how it felt like a knife had gone through his heart when he’d heard it. His cry was far too similar to Issac’s when he’d leave for weeks yet again. 

“Not well, I think she’d like to see you though.”

“No, she wouldn't, Karen. I’m about as helpful as a dead horse at the moment.”

He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth. Not because they weren't true, no, they were and he knew it, but because of the little fire that glowed murderously in her eyes after. 

“Arthur Morgan, I don’t want to hear you say that again.”

“Of course Karen, won't happen again.”

She didn't seem appeased but backed away where she had leaned towards him in her moment of anger. 

“It’s not true, Arthur.” She said it with conviction, and he wished he could believe it.

He didn’t say anything back, knowing that it could lead to an argument and he didn't have the energy or the will to deal with that right then, and deciding to appease her; stood, nodded in her direction in goodbye, and walked slowly to John’s, no, _Abigail’s_ tent. 

“Miss Roberts?” He asked, and Tilly appeared, opening the flap to let him in and gently squeezing his shoulder as she stepped out.

Abigail’s face was splotchy and red, eyes bloodshot, but for the moment her tears had stopped. He supposed it was for the best that she wasn't crying, for both of them. He couldn't allow his own grief and worry to bubble to the surface, not now, not when everyone needed him to be strong; he knew that if he sat with her while she wept that he would inevitably cry with her. 

“Did you see anything out there? Anything that could tell us where he went?” She asks, hands grabbing at the blanket in her lap. No, not a blanket, a coat. John’s coat. The one that Abigail stole on occasion when the evenings where cool and her and John were speaking to each other softly instead of yelling.

Something bubbled up then, worry, the water and how deadly it could be, how many times he had fished John out struggling to breathe, and his hands shook. 

“Not yet,” His voice wasn’t as steady as he hoped, “But I’m going to keep looking, I promise you that.”

She looked away, reached out to smooth out the blankets where Jack slept next to her, on her other side away from John. 

“Arthur,” Her voice wavered, “I don’t think he wants to be found. I think that…”

The tears returned, and he forced himself to look away, to squeeze his own eyes shut.

“I don’t know if he’d even come back if you did find him.”

He drew in a sharp breath, and her tear-filled eyes returned to him. 

And in that moment, he couldn't stay any longer. Couldn’t look into those eyes filled with tears, couldn’t stay in this tent, buried in memories and the smell of the soap Abigail liked to buy. The kind she made John use when she could get the man without a few feet of water without him bolting.

Water. The river. John could have drowned and there was nothing Arthur could do to change it.

He couldn't breathe, turning on his heel and escaping the tent. The sunlight was almost too much, and he stumbled blindly towards his tent. He needed to be able to breathe, to grieve privately, to avoid the eyes that were just waiting for him to snap.

A hand curled around his arm and he pulled away, only for it to tighten and a voice to accompany it, “C’mere, son.”

_Dutch._ Relief coursed through his veins, and he leaned into the hand, blinking the world into a bearable amount of light once more as Dutch pulled him into the meeting tent. The tent flap fell shut behind them and Arthur sank into an offered chair, burying his head in his hands.

“Arthur,” A hand rested on his hair, and he heard Dutch pull a chair across the dirt in front of him to sit down. He didn’t have to say more than that, the meaning was in his tone. The same tone he had used when he’d come home after Mary had called off their engagement, a tone both stern and kind. 

_Talk to me_ , it said, and he did.

“Did I miss something?” Arthur asked, half a whisper and half a sob, “Some sign or moment when he was struggling and I just didn’t notice? How long did he go on like that before he finally ran off like he did?”

“Hosea and I didn’t see anything either, Arthur,” His voice was strong, calming, but under it Arthur heard that familiar thread of grief, “Sometimes, people try their hardest to hide that they're struggling until they can’t handle it anymore.”

“We can’t change what’s happened, dear boy,” Hosea said, resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He wasn't sure when the older man had arrived, “It’s not your fault he’s left us.”

Arthur wept, and Dutch and Hosea did too. For John, for Abigail, for little Jack, for Dutch and Hosea and everyone else in camp; still there and gone alike.

For Issac, for Eliza, for years lost and voices fading from his memory. 

John would forget too if he never came back.

Arthur hoped it wasn’t too late for him to change.

. . .

  
  


The day passed, and John did not return to them.

When Jack cried because his mother cried, Arthur retreated into the forest; returning hours later with meat for the next day's dinner. 

He was almost asleep when he picked up on the sound of footsteps outside his tent. He pushed himself up on his elbow, looking towards the door as knuckles rapped against the pole before the tent flap opened.

It was Abigail, blanket wrapped around her shoulders and carrying one of the oil lanterns. She didn't say anything, only slipping in through the opening, letting the canvas fall shut behind her, and sitting down on a chair by the desk. 

“Are you okay?” She asked as he sat up fully, grabbing his coat from the end of the bed to keep warm while he was outside the blankets. 

“I’m fine, ma’am You don't need to worry about me.”

“You ran out while we were talking, Arthur, of course I’m going to be worried.”

Shame flushed his cheeks, “I’m sorry about that, Miss Roberts.”

“None of that Miss Roberts mess now, Arthur. I’d like to think we’re friends, friends call each other by their names. I shouldn't have said what I did. It was too soon and I know you're hurting too.”

She paused, and the oil lamp now sat on the desk, flickered; casting shadows across the canvas. 

“Maybe that’s why I said it to you and not the others, because you care about him too. The others do, of course, but it’s different with us, you know? He’s more family to you and I than anyone.”

“Yeah,” He sighed, “I know.”

“I just,” her voice cracked, his heart did too, “I just want to say I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you even more than you were.”

“It’s alright, Miss Abigail. You don't need to worry.” He stood, shrugging on his coat fully and moving to step into his boots, “I’ll walk you back to your tent, if you’ll allow me.”

She nodded, and he offered her his arm, and the two lonely people wandered out into the darkness. 

. . .

He dreamt about Eliza that night, the troubles of the day bleeding into his sleep.

In the dream, he searched for her, but couldn't get to her. She was always just out of reach, but never out of sight.

When he woke, a new feeling filled his chest. Not grief, no, not sorrow or tears.

Anger, rage, hate, whatever you like to call it, had taken up residence in Arthur’s soul. 

It had begun at breakfast when Abigail was still asleep but Jack had woken up. Arthur had heard him fussing from his own tent and had gently taken him from a half-awake Abigail who gladly went back to sleep. He’d been feeding the boy breakfast, the pot of oatmeal horribly bland but hot enough to cut through the chill that came with the Autumn mornings, when the feeling had crawled into his chest.

John had given this up, had thrown it away as if it was garbage or something unworthy of his attention. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

He’d run like a coward into the night, and he didn’t want to be found. 

Jack squirmed, wanting down, and Arthur set him down on the grass to crawl, keeping an eye on him and knowing that Grimshaw was doing the same from her seat behind him.

“If he ever comes back here,” He whispered to the fire, the rage pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart, “I’ll make him wish he had died.”

Hosea gave him a look over the fire, a soft, heartbroken thing, but Arthur could find no remorse within him to give.

. . .

On the third day, Abigail didn't get out of bed.

When Grimshaw took over watching Jack after breakfast, Arthur packed a bag and climbed onto Boadicea.

“I’ll be back by the end of the week at the latest,” He told Hosea, who nodded, concern in his eyes.

The days were growing colder as winter approached, and he found his mind drifting to the ratty blankets at camp. Jack had grown out of his coat, they’d need a new one, and he could think of a dozen other things they needed before it gets any colder. He figured that while he was on his way south towards Tumbleweed to ask around about John, he could hunt a bit, maybe get some pelts to sell for money to buy blankets and such for the camp.. 

A pack of wolves ambushed him on a mountain road and met a quick death, their pelts soon stacked behind his saddle and meat wrapped in brown paper to be sold in the nearby town of West Victoria. 

When he passed travelers on the road, he asked if they had seen John, showing them a picture of John holding Jack earlier that year that he’d managed to track down in camp.

But no one had seen him. 

He reached West Victoria shortly before nightfall, selling the meat and a couple of the pelts, setting aside the best ones for an idea he’d had; wrapping them up and tucked them away into the saddlebag. He hitched Boadicea outside the local tavern and went inside.

“Excuse me,” He stepped up to the bar and the bartender moved to speak with him, “Do you know if this man passed through town in the last couple days?”

“Hmmmmm,” the man took a long look at the photo, before frowning and shaking his head, “Sorry partner, I don’t recognize him. Might ask the man at the general store? He sees more of the people passing through than I do, believe it or not.”

“Thanks,” He tossed a couple coins up onto the counter, followed by a handful of dollar bills “For your time, and could I get a room?”

“Of course. First door on the right upstairs. Let me know if you need anything else.”

He nodded in thanks, climbing the stairs and sinking down onto the bed. He pulled his journal out of his bag out of habit, but couldn't find the words to express how he felt about everything going on, so he put it back. 

“We have to go on,” He said, trying to convince himself, seeing how the words felt on his tongue, “He’s left, that was his choice, we can’t stay up waiting.”

He nodded, even when his throat burned, and then he pulled out his journal; writing those words out instead of a regular recollection of his day. A reminder, for every time he went to write, that life had to go on.

John was dead to him now, it was how it had to be.


	2. A Change in the Air

No one had seen John Marston. 

Not a single bartender, general store owner, or postman south of their camp. Not a single traveler on the road.

Fears of the river crawled up his throat again, the faint heartbeat of his worry that John had died in it growing stronger. He pushed it away,  _ John is dead to me now,  _ tried to believe the lie, and checked his map again.

He swung around east as the week came to a close, checking a couple of smaller towns that way before arriving back at camp. He’d get Dutch to send Mac or Davey to check up north of them, maybe they'd have better luck than he did. 

Upon his return, he couldn't help but notice that Abigail was out by the fire, Jack asleep in her lap, her free hand holding a cup of coffee. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, but dimmed once more when he shook his head. She bowed her head, and he felt regret course through his veins.

He tied Boadicea up at the posts with the other horse, digging around his bag for the pelts and tucking them under his arm before crossing the grass to her, sitting down on the log. 

“Coffee?” She asked, her voice light in an attempt at cheerfulness.

He murmured his thanks, taking the offered cup and taking a sip of the burning liquid before passing it back to her.

“Was thinkin’ about how cold it’s getting while I was out there, got a couple wolf pelts for a coat for Jack.” 

A smile, a  _ real _ smile, pulled at the corners of her lips then, eyes brightening once more as he rolled out the pelts over the knee closest to her.

“They’re beautiful, Arthur,” She ran her fingers through the soft fur, “Thank you.”

. . .

They had to move on, and they did. 

Davey and Mac returned from their trip empty-handed, and Dutch gave a speech that started out solemn and that ended with a description of their next heist; something to focus on, to believe in.

It was as close to a funeral as John would get, and Arthur found himself okay with that. He was tired of mourning.

The job had been planned for months, it was the reason they were even there. A city bank, not too big, but big enough to be more dangerous than your normal job. While they were hitting the bank, Grimshaw, the girls, Jack, and Uncle would be packing up the camp and moving to a new site already found and prepared by Bill. They would all meet up there to celebrate a job well done afterward.

“Dutch, can I speak to you?”

Arthur already knew what Abigail wanted to say, and he was sure Dutch did too, but he allowed her to step into his tent and let the canvas fall shut behind her. Arthur stepped closer, pretending that he was checking the camp ledger and lighting a cigarette instead of eavesdropping. 

“Do we have to move camp, Dutch? It’s so soon and what if John came back and we were gone?”

Dutch sighed, and Arthur heard the wood in his favorite chair creak and settle against the uneven ground, “Miss Roberts, I miss him too. Some days it feels like it’s ripped the heart from my chest. But we can’t stay here, especially after the job. It would be far too dangerous.’

“Can’t we delay the job? Just for another week or so? Please, Dutch I’m begging you-”

“I wish we could, I truly do, but we have to do it on the day it’s planned. According to Karen, that’s when the most money will be in the vault, and we can't risk missing it.”

“But-”

“My dear, if John wishes to find us, I have every confidence that he will be able to do so. But we have to move forward, no matter how difficult it seems. I’m very sorry.”

There was a silence that stretched out, uncomfortable, and then Abigail’s voice returned, steady but on the edge of falling apart, “Alright, Dutch.”

“I am sorry, Miss Roberts.”

“I know you are. Thank you.”

The canvas flew open moments later and Arthur busied himself with putting money in the collection box as Abigail strode by, hands clenched into fists by her side. He hadn't been planning on it but he’d been reading the ledger far too long and Hosea seemed to be starting to get suspicious where he was sitting at the table, and he sighed when he found only a handful of bills left in his coat. He’d have to make do and buy only the necessary items until after the bank job when he got his share. 

He turned around, only to catch Hosea rolling his eyes at him, and Arthur feigned innocence and walked away as quickly as he could. 

. . .

The morning of the robbery, the atmosphere around camp was excited and at the same time, tense. 

Abigail packed her and Jack’s thing hurriedly, occasionally wiping at her eyes when she thought no one was watching, and loaded them onto the wagon that Mrs. Grimshaw directed her to. 

Arthur wandered over to her shortly before they left, pulling his coat on as he walked, and he stopped next to her. He pulled a revolver from the coat pocket and pressed it into her hands.

“You know how to use this?”

She nodded, and he did too, in relief. 

“Bad feelin’ in the air, Miss Abigail. Uncle will take good care of all of you but I feel better knowing that you and Jack will have this.”

He patted her hands again, steadying her, “Right in the chest, you hear? There’s eight bullets in here, and revolvers kick back pretty bad.”

“I know how to shoot a gun, Arthur.”

“I know you do.” There was a bit of sadness in his eyes, worry, “Forgive me, Miss Abigail.”

“What for?” 

“For fussing,” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he rubbed a hand over his face, “For treatin’ you as less capable than any of us. It ain’t true, I know it. But with everything that’s happened-”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” She took his hand, squeezed it, and then stepped away, “Go get us a good haul, Mr. Morgan.”

He tipped his hat to her, a soft smile on his face, “Will do, Miss Roberts.”

. . .

The robbery went as smoothly as he could have hoped, and they set off towards their new home to the North.

The others were waiting for them there, and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as they approached the site and he saw Abigail on guard at the treeline. He waved to her, and she waved back before turning back to call out to the other women. 

Arthur slowed, letting the others ride in ahead of him, and Dutch sent back a knowing look before shaking his head and continuing towards the camp. Arthur got off the horse, holding the reins with one hand as he stood in front of her. 

“Any trouble around, Miss Roberts?”

“Other than us? No, Mr. Morgan.”

He laughed, and it almost  _ hurt. _

It’s short lived, as the laughter left him feeling hollow and sick, and then she was there, and he can tell in her eyes she felt the same. Her hand reached out to touch his cheek, hesitated, and retreated to her side.

“We don’t need him,” She spat, but the pain in her eyes made the anger in her voice less convincing, “We’re better off without him.” 

Her jaw trembled, “I hope he never comes back. I hope he’s  _ dead. _ ”

“You don't mean that,” He said, “I know you don’t.”

Her hands trembled on the rifle in her hands when he said her name, and she shut her eyes against the tears. 

“I wish I did, Arthur, it’d hurt less.”

“It would.”

He offered her his handkerchief, and she took it, wiping at her face until the skin was red and angry. Then his canteen, which she drank from until the shaking in her hands slowed.

And lastly his arm, which she took, and they walked back into the camp; hearts still a little raw, but beginning to heal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I want to take my time building the relationship  
> Also me: I just want them to kiss why won’t they kiss


	3. Blessed Are They That Mourn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Outlined this chapter A Long Time ago but of course the universe is funny and only gave me the inspiration to write a respiratory illness while I possibly have covid 😂 (I’m okay, don’t worry.)
> 
> Before reading this chapter, I’d recommend reading the others first. I’ve changed some wording to give a moment in this chapter more impact.

Weeks passed, and life returned to normal without John. 

Now nothing could truly be normal, of course, because normal was John at the campfire as Davey played the guitar, was the air filled with the sounds of John and Abigail arguing, was the sight of John walking to take Old Boy out for a job, rifle in hand. So no, things weren't normal, but they were as normal as they could be. 

Someone else took up residence in what had always been John’s seat at the fire, the air was filled with the sounds of Dutch’s speeches, and someone else walked to their horse with rifle in hand. And that was okay, the world caving in the fill the John Marston-shaped hole in the camp, it had to be okay.

Because if it wasn't, Arthur would have to admit to himself that he still cared about John, that he still missed him. If the world caved in to fill the space, maybe it would bury John, maybe he could truly die in Arthur’s heart. 

. . .

It started with a cough, dry and simply annoying. 

By evening it was worse, sounding from deep in Abigail’s chest, and when Arthur heard it, he wandered over towards where she sat next to the fire; taking a seat next to her and offering the cleaner of his bandannas that he kept on him.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” She spat, and he knew it was a lie, “I’ll be back to work by morning.”

He moved his hand slowly to keep from startling her, and she sharply inhaled as he covered her forehead with it. He shook his head, a frown pulling at his bed.

“You've got a fever. Get to bed, I’ll watch your boy.”

She stood to argue with him, but was cut off by a coughing fit that took her by surprise. One of his hands darted out to wrap around her arm to keep her from stumbling and once the fit had ended, it dropped to her back. 

“Miss Abigail-”

“I’ll go,” She said, nodding, and he fell silent, “I’ll go.”

Once she had disappeared into her tent, Arthur went to Hosea, who had the boy. Jack’s eyes drooped, exhausted from the day, and he went readily and happily into Arthur’s arms; setting his head on a broad shoulder and grabbing at the flannel shirt with his tiny fists. Arthur’s hand moved up to the boy’s back, guarding him against the growing chill of the evening. The movement was like a memory, he barely even realized he was doing it.

“His momma’s caught a cold. Jack’ll stay with me tonight so he hopefully wont get it.”

Hosea nodded, and there was a soft, sad look in his eye. It hadn't been so long ago, only a couple years ago now, that he’d seen Arthur in this exact position with his own son. His Isaac. The boy had looked so much like his father, all light hair and baby blues with his momma’s freckles. 

Hosea almost said something, almost let himself fall into those memories of finding Arthur in that little house with the tiniest little human in his arms. He’d have stayed with them if Dutch hadnt asked him to come back, Hosea knows that without question. He would have been a good father. 

He was, till the very end. And now he was stepping into that role for Jack. Watching his son, the gentle giant to some and the ruthless enforcer to others, gather Jack against his chest as the boy’s eyes fell closed from the comfort and the warmth made Hosea’s heart hurt in that soft way. 

Arthur had always been gentle, even when they’d first met and he’d been angry and had cut up knuckles from a fight, there’d been a practiced calm to his hands. Hosea saw it even in the most chaotic of moments, how Arthur loaded a gun without ever dropping a single bullet in a firefight. No hurry, only precision and a careful, steady hand. And he saw it now by firelight, the glow casting shadows and warmth across man and child, how Arthur’s eyes took on that soft and aged look as Jack snuggled in a little closer into flannel and chest, and Arthur’s hand drew circles across the small back; small enough that his hand could span its entirety. Caught in a memory, clearly, and Hosea didnt know whether to let him have it or to save him from it. 

Arthur dreamed while awake, caught in the memory of when Isaac was born. He’d made it in time, but only barely, and he’d held his newborn son in his hands with his coat still on, with the guns still in their holsters and across his back. The midwife had been scandalized by the sight and was quickly paid for her silence. And maybe it was a cruel trick by the universe, to have a man hold his child looking like the outlaw he was and then not allow him to save them years later with those same weapons. 

When his thoughts drifted to the two white crosses, to the graves dug by the robbers who killed them, his eyes turned cold towards the fire and his hand stilled for the briefest of moments before he forced himself to continue. 

He felt eyes on him and looked over to Hosea, and the old man stared back at him with a look in his eye that Arthur couldnt quite decipher.

“He’ll need someone growing up.”

“He’ll have us,” Arthur said, “All of us.”

The two men said no more, but Arthur knew exactly what Hosea had meant.

. . .

Despite the fact that Arthur slept by the fire, Jack wrapped up in a flannel worn down and soft enough that Arthur had set it aside to be made rags, the boy still caught what his mother had. 

The day was spent in a blur of Grimshaw making soup and Arthur being the one to carry everything needed in and out of the tent. He didnt see a point in letting the girls do it when he’d probably already been exposed when Jack slept on his chest. 

And between the sickness and realizing just how cozy he could be, Jack didnt want to sleep in his own bed anymore. Abigail didnt want him out of her sight though, so a compromise had to be made to appease both parties. Arthur would sit in the tent, bandanna up over his nose, and would gather Jack up to his chest once more in one arm, using his other to run over the boy’s brown hair until he’d fallen asleep.

“John could never calm him,” She said after a long silence that night, as Arthur held Jack longer than was needed for him to fall into the deep sleep where he wouldnt wake with the movement to his cot. She hesitated, and so did Arthur, but it was the vunerability in her eyes by the light of the lantern that gave him the strength to speak.

“Aint my first time taking care of a baby.” He paused again, for only a moment, when the memory of those weeks when Isaac had colic and would cry without end passed through his mind, “And I wasnt good at it in the beginning either.”

He could tell she was curious, but she didn’t pry, only looking down at her hands to avoid his eyes.

“Thank you, Arthur, for all you do for the boy. And for me.”

He slid Jack from his arms to the cot in a gentle movement, drawing the blanket up over him and tucking him back in before he could wake from the chill. 

“There’s no need for that.” He straightened up, standing and slouching to keep from hitting his head on the canvas above, “This gang, these people, they're my family. All we have is each other in the end.”

He suddenly felt like he’d said too much, like there was too much honesty in the words that would follow but that he couldn't stop, “I’ve killed for them, and I’ll happily die for them, and you. And the boy.”

He saw something change in her eyes at the way his voice cracked at the boy, understanding maybe, he couldn't be sure. 

“Get some rest, Miss Roberts.”

And then he was gone, doing his best to escape everything he’d left in the air between them. 

The darkness within his own tent felt like safety, like a shelter, but he still fell into a restless sleep; dreaming of his son, of Jack, of John in the riverbed, of Eliza, of the midwife who’s face morphed into the face of the old woman who he’d killed on a job eleven years ago after she’d pulled a rifle on him. She still haunted him, they all did, and he swore even in his sleep that he’d never let anything happen to Jack.

He’d join his ghosts and his demons before a single hair was harmed on that boy’s head. 

The cry broke him out of the haze between sleep and nightmare and he was walking across the camp in his bare feet before he’d even fully woken up. Isaac was crying, that was all he knew, that and that he had to get to him, to soothe him before he woke Eliza.

And then the dew soaked through his wool socks and he was cold and his hand touched canvas instead of the wooden door to the bedroom where Eliza and Isaac had slept. It felt like a kick to the gut and he doubled over, Isaac-Jack still wailing in the tent through the thin canvas at his ear. 

“He’s gone,” He whispered, and he was awake again.

Jack’s cries began to quiet, Abigail singing something Arthur couldn't quite catch through the blur of emotion and pain, and he stood there, waiting till he knew the boy was asleep again and her singing had ceased. 

When he could breathe again, he leaned more into the canvas and spoke barely loud enough for her to hear to keep from waking the boy, “You two alright?”

“We’re okay, Arthur.”

He stumbled away from the tent, trying to escape the crushing hold on his chest the canvas seemed to have, and made his way to the fire. It was dying, only a handful of coals with any glow still left in them, and he grabbed kindling from the nearby bucket and coaxed it back to life. When it had finally come back, hot against his exposed skin, he backed away to sit down on one of the logs. His feet were cold, so he propped them up closer to the fire and stared into the flickering flames, trying to forget the little house with the crib he’d made with his own hand. The house with the girl with the blonde curls. The boy. 

He had them all preserved in journals, their living faces drawn from precious memory, and it was the only way he could hold onto them still. The photograph that had taken up permanent residence in his pocket was the same way. Someday he’d give it to Jack, if that was what Abigail wished, and it would be all the boy had of his father. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours today, my boy?” Hosea asked, appearing at his side and sitting down on the log.

“Nothin’.”

Hosea shook his head, “I don't quite believe that, son, but alright.”

They sat in silence for a long time, and when that soft waking baby talk floated up into the air, Arthur’s entire body went still; hands clenching up into fists with bloodless, white knuckles. Hosea’s aged, gun-and-pen-calloused hand settled on his own, squeezing until Arthur released the hold. 

“He sounds like Isaac.” Arthur murmured, and Hosea nodded, the look in his eyes saying that he already knew that. 

“He does, doesn't he?”

Jack finally hushed after a handful of minutes and the tension left Arthur’s shoulders bit by bit. Hosea’s hand left him and the older man held it and the other out to the fire, warming them in the morning chill. 

“You were always a good father.”

Arthur scoffed, “Good fathers don’t leave.”

Hosea didn't say anything for a long, long time, and when he did, it was a hushed whisper, meant for Arthur’s ears alone.

“Good fathers don’t leave for selfish reasons, Arthur. And what you did was never selfish.”

His eyes burned with tears and before even a moment could pass he rose quickly, turning to walk back to his tent before Hosea could see, “I’m goin’ out hunting.”

Hosea sighed.

“Be safe out there.”

“Always am, Hosea.”

Hosea didn't comment on how his voice broke, and Arthur was grateful. 

. . .

He stayed away nearly all day, hidden away in the forests and the plains, wherever the tracks of the animals he was following would take him. It took his mind off of everything, and it was only when he heard a coyote off in the distance howl that he packed up the rest of his haul and headed back. 

Davey was at the fire when he got there, playing an old melody that Arthur had heard a thousand times out of him, loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire. Mac was asleep across from him, head back and mouth open wide enough Arthur wouldn't be surprised if he’d swallowed flies already. He could tell that Hosea was in Dutch’s tent, the way the lamp behind the canvas cast the shadow made his fingers itch for pencil and paper, and the two seemed to be sitting across from each other at the table, drinking as they talked. It reminded him of the old days, when he was a boy and the two would stay up all night talking. People wondered how he was able to fall asleep anywhere, it was because of their conversations that lasted till dawn and sometimes after, and while Hosea got a little quieter, Dutch never bothered. 

Arthur brought the meat and pelts to Pearson, who seemed both elated that he’d gotten such a great haul and disappointed that Arthur had brought it back so late in the evening that he couldn't just laze about around the fire for the rest of the night. As an apology, even though Pearson wasn't his favorite and would never be, Arthur stayed behind to help him clean and wrap the meat and get it put away in the stores for tomorrow. 

Then, he went back to his tent, washing his hands of the blood and dirt from the day and sitting down on the cot to pull off his boots. Only before he could manage to get the first one off, the canvas flap of the tent flew open and Abigail stepped in, voice filled with raw fury. 

“I woke up and you were gone. Your horse too.”

The guilt slammed into him like a train. He hadn't been thinking this morning when he left, so caught up in his memories and the emotions that always accompanied them that he hadn't stopped to say anything to her. She’d been asleep, the boy too, and to look at them, to hear her voice, it would have broken down what little wall he had to hold back his grief. 

He met her eyes, filled with tears of anger, and he felt sick. 

“I’m very sorry,” He should call her _Miss Roberts,_ put the distance between them that he, she, _they_ needed. In the forest he’d been forced to confront how close they were getting, how that looked, and he knew he needed to move away from her, to let them both move forward.

In the beginning, he’d thought what he felt towards her was like with the other girls in the camp. He’d been away from the camp when she’d arrived, away on yet another one of his “grief-hunts” as he’d once heard Hosea call them when he didn't think Arthur could hear him. And it was true, that was what they were, an escape into the wilderness to continue grieving and trying to put his life and heart together piece by piece. At camp he didn't want to show it, so the woods and plains held all his secrets. 

When he’d met Abigail Roberts, she was already being called John’s girl, and while he couldn't figure out why this woman would want to be anywhere near John Marston, he was happy for them. At least until the arguing started up for the fifth time that next morning and Arthur became very very tired of it very quickly. Not that he’d ever say anything, he’d just either leave or pull down the brim of his hat to shade his eyes and go to sleep, trying to imagine the argument as one of Dutch’s more enthusiastic speeches when he was more than a little tipsy.

Then she got pregnant, and John got stupid. Running off all the time on jobs he wouldn't have taken before, actually hunting for once, avoiding the camp like they all had the plague. It’d taken Hosea going after him and just about dragging him back by the ear to get him to apologize and be around any at all. 

Arthur supposed that had been the beginning of the end. When Jack had been born, the accusations started up, and those started even more arguments than before. Arthur would admit he probably hadn't helped there, he’d ended up bringing back supplies that Abigail had needed and John had gotten the idea into his head that Jack was Arthur’s son. Which if John had half a brain, he would have realized that that wasn't even a possibility. 

He’d gone off at Abigail, and Arthur had stepped in. Heated words had been said and John had ended up disappearing for the rest of the week. Made a good show of it on the way out, cursing Arthur’s name even as he turned the corner of the path and disappeared into the trees. 

He’d come back, of course, but not for long.

The day before he’d left, they hadn't had a single argument. After Jack had fell asleep and the adults had sat around the fire he’d even had his head on Abigail’s shoulder as she sat across his lap. He’d seemed okay, seemed normal. Had he decided then to leave? Had he worked through a list of where he’d go and what he’d do as Davey played the guitar for them all? Or had it been a sudden decision when he woke up, where he silently packed his bag in the darkness and slipped away without a second word or thought. 

Arthur supposed they'd never know, whether he was in the riverbank or asleep beneath the stars somewhere far away from them.

Something had changed after John left, something Arthur couldn't quite explain. He didn't deserve to walk on the same earth she did or breathe the same air, but by some kind grace he was alive to do so. Their shared grief had turned to an admiration for her. And admiration, he realized now, looking at the fire in her eyes and the bits of hair escaping her braid to fall around her face, was so very quickly changing to something else. 

_I’m sorry,_ he’d said, and he should have called her _Miss Roberts,_ to pretend that it was still admiration or what he felt for the other girls in the camp, but instead he called her something else.

“Abigail.”

The world went still. Her eyes narrowed at him for a moment, long enough that he worried she knew, and then they softened, but only slightly. 

“The boy needs you.” She said, something in her voice that he couldn't quite figure out, and then she turned on her heel and disappeared back through the tent door. 

He rose and followed, catching up to her after a moment, and they walked past the fire where Mac still snored and Davey still played to the tent where Jack was. Tilly had him in her arms, trying to get him to sleep, and she looked up when they arrived.

“I think his fever’s up,” She told Abigail, and without another word, set him in Arthurs waiting arms and left. 

It did look like the boy’s fever was a little worse than before, his face flushed and lip set in a pout even as he dug his nose into Arthur’s flannel. Isaac had always done the same thing when he was sleepy, and the memory hurt, but the pain wasn’t as sharp as it had been that morning.

Abigail sat back down on her cot and Arthur rocked her son to sleep in the silence, holding him until he was deep enough into sleep that he wouldnt wake when he moved him. But even then he didnt lay him down on his pile of blankets and the wolf furs that Arthur had brought back in those days after John disappeared.

“Long time ago now,” Arthur began, voice barely loud enough for Abigail to hear, “I had a son.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her go still where she sat.

“Jack’s got a cry thats so similar, this morning I thought it was Isaac.”

They sat in the silence for a long moment and he hoped that she would understand what he was saying, that no more would be needed, because he didnt want to tell the story again. Not tonight. 

“I can’t imagine.”

He stared down at Jack’s sleeping face, pulling him just a little closer, as if that would protect him from the world. 

“I shouldnt have left like I did, I’m deeply sorry for that.”

“No, I’m sorry-“

“Abigail.” He said, and they both went silent. He kept digging deeper and he worried that he wouldn’t be able to pull himself back up before he got hurt, or even worse, she got hurt, “It’s alright.”

“Hosea said you were coming back,” She whispered, “I should have believed him.”

“I always come back.”

The house with the girl with blonde curls, the boy, the crib, the white crosses, Dutch with his hand on the gun when he stepped into the house and how it fell to his side when he saw Arthur sitting at the table, a broken glass on the floor and dried blood on his hands. 

“Sometimes even when I shouldn’t.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter up soon! I’d love to know what you thought of the chapter! Thanks for reading!


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